as though life is bathed in golden sunlight
by Miss.Full.of.Light
Summary: Even an Empath might need certain feelings to be spelled out. Set mid-'Flashback'. Two-shot.
1. sunset

It takes Keefe a minute to piece together.

Perhaps because it's not something tangible, but rather a sudden _loss_ —that flowing, fumbling hum at the back of his mind–

– _heart_ , breaking–

–he had grown so expertly to ignore, that blanket of inadequacy settling oh-so-easily over him from time to time; a fundamental part of him (which, yes, he loathed) just— _gone_.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Sencen?" Tiergan asks, cocking his head to the side. Keefe wouldn't swear it, but, for an instant, it almost looks as if the older elf is grinning down at him, in a somewhat knowing manner that dances gleefully across his features.

Keefe clears his throat, runs a distract hand down his face, fidgets. "Yeah. Yes, of course."

But Sophie is glancing at him and his senses are already over-flooding with concern. "Are you sure? You were spacing out," she pins him with a chastising yet warm stare as her fingers start trailing along his forehead, pushing back a few locks of blond hair in their attempt to probe for a fever.

Keefe knows, after years of _her_ , that it's a human thing–

–so _why_ is he holding his breath, and _what_ is that flutter awakening within him–

–still, he's in awe of how much clearer it all is now that the focus of her attention has shifted: her feelings towards Fitz, they— _where_ are they?

Inhale. Exhale.

Carefully.

Slowly.

He traces back through the last couple of sessions the three of them have had together, wonders if working so hard in order to retrieve those memories his mom hid away into the darkness, stole from him because he is _useless_ either way, caused him to miss the more subtle signs that things were changing.

He was so used to ( _pretending_ ) the fuzzy waves of emotion coming from Sophie whenever Fitz was around (didn't exist, meant something else). He's empty–

– _complete_ –

–without them.

"Dude, you're letting her mess with The Hair," Fitz chuckles, if not a tad annoyed. "Even _I_ am starting to get worried."

Sophie immediately snatches her hand back, blushes so furiously Keefe can't quite understand whose embarrassment he's feeling more.

He pats his head a few times, adjusts some strands just-so.

"Maybe we should call it a day."

" _No_!"

What if _everything_ comes back, next time they do?

"I actually agree with Sophie," Tiergan settles the argument before it can even begin. "I promised Wylie we'd have dinner together with Prentice at the hideout, and I still have a couple of errands to run."

Sophie scowls. "As Tiergan," she edges, "or as Granite?"

"Both."

The curt answer doesn't appease her one bit, actually fuels her nerves; the murky, yellow crystal their mentor fetches from a deep pocket in his dark brown tunic and holds up to the faint light streaming in through the far-end windows of the Healing Center definitely doesn't help, either.

But Sophie has learned to pick her battles, so she sighs and nods a resigned goodbye as Tiergan glitters away.

A beat.

"Wow, Foster. Look at you! Just letting a member of the Collective leave all on his own on some shady, secret business, with no complaints? I'm—"

"I know," Fitz cuts in, smiling broad and bright for her only. "I'm amazed, too."

"— _disappointed_." Keefe finishes instead, pulling a face. Sophie mimics the expression, as if she's agreeing. "Where's that infamous gumption of yours gone?"

"I... have other things to think about, lately."

"More important than risking your life? We all know that's your favorite pastime."

Another beat.

Longer, this time.

Charged with a crackling tension.

"You can never take anything seriously, can you?"

"Uh?"

"Every single time I tell you something, you turn it into a joke. I'm getting tired of it, Keefe."

She sounds _so_ –

–sad–

–defeated.

It stirs something deep within him, tangles it up in knots that press, press, _press_ against his ribcage until it hurts to breathe.

"Whoa, Foster—back up. What?"

Sophie rubs circles over her temples, closes her eyes. Her emotions are an intricate web of heavy, choking coldness, and Keefe struggles to stay upright as they hit and fit, working their way right into that nook in his broken heart that has just been vacated.

But the bewilderment, the shame, the _fear_ –

–because _how_ does he fix this sudden thing he can't understand how he fractured–

–they are all his.

Even Fitz has the decency to look sheepish, to look away.

"Just... forget it."

"Hey—no," Keefe stops her as she starts to pull at the cord keeping her home crystal tight around her neck, fingers circling in a firm yet gentle manner around her wrist.

Her pulse spikes.

Keefe's eyes widen—and it would be downright comical, if this weren't such a significant moment (a _revelation_ ).

He gets it, now. Why it took him so long to notice–

–not only because he was purposefully avoiding that smoldering spot of sensitivity, that constant reminder that he wasn't _enough_ for her–

–but because there's still a _kindling_ there—if he really, _finally_ pays attention—an ardor brewing and swelling to fill up that space in a way so similar yet so very different.

His breath hitches.

It's–

–and he's so awestruck, it gives Sophie the chance to vanish among particles of golden sunlight–

– _for_ _him_.


	2. sunrise

Keefe is squirming under Grady's assessing stare, sweat pearling the crown of his forehead.

He's no good with–

– _for_ –

–his own father, so why should Sophie's be any different?

Silence encompasses them, heavy and itchy like a blanket, begging him to break it with some clever quip. Yet, despite the nerves, he doesn't joke, doesn't back down, set on proving that he's serious about this—serious about nothing _if not_ this—whatever _this_ is, whatever Sophie will allow it to be.

Grady seems to understand, eyes as unyielding as ever but with a glimmer of approval peaking through.

The door to Havenfield swings open wider.

"Come on in."

"Uh. Thank you."

Ro snickers as she follows.

"You will find Sophie in the kitchen," Grady supplies, moving past him to, much to Keefe's surprise, step outside. "She's been... stress-baking."

The Ruewens were probably ready to launch an elvin patisserie, then.

"Thank you."

Grady arches a thick brow, amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth. "You've already said that."

"Lord Funkyhair does have the tendency to lose all of his shine whenever The Adorable Queen of Obliviousness is involved."

Keefe flashes bright red, hot to the very tips of his ears. " _Not_. _Helping_!" he whisper-squeaks with a glare aimed in Ro's direction.

Mercifully, Verdi roaring loudly from her enclosure far into the pastures saves him from further embarrassment.

Grady cringes. "That's my cue, I believe. I will see you later."

A beat.

"That—"

"Yup. Sounded like a threat."

Keefe gulps, nods his head even if Ro's sentence was a statement, not a question.

"I guess you better make use of the time you have before he comes back, then, don't you? Chop-chop!"

" _Don't_ —" —another glare, a sigh, he resumes through gritted teeth— "I'm already on edge."

"I'm well aware," Ro pulls a face, clearly not impressed, "I'm trying to take it _off_."

"How magnanimous."

"Keefe?"

The boy whips around in a graceless pirouette, feeling no queasiness whatsoever at the sudden movement–

–it's _impossible_ , he has learned, to feel anything which is not connected—coming from, caused by—to the one girl standing in front of him, whenever she's near (whenever she isn't, too)–

–only anticipation.

The sight of her after days of avoidance is a punch in the gut, so her name is but a word carried out on a shaky exhale.

"Sophie."

"Ro."

Both elves turn to look at the ogre intent on observing their interaction from the sideline.

"What? I thought we were parroting our names to each other."

Keefe is about to retort when Sandor appears behind Sophie with signature stealth.

"I think the ogre princess should accompany me on this patrol."

"Is it a challenge I hear?"

"An offer," Sandor scowls.

"Well," Ro's answering smirk is a pointy thing, "how can I refuse, then? Let's see what I will detect that you couldn't."

Sophie keeps shuffling her feet on the spot long after their bodyguards' disappearance.

Seconds amount to minutes amount to hours amount to an infinity of doubts. He's an Empath and should know–

– _feel_ –

–better–

–even if he has grown up believing to not be good enough–

–should never doubt an emotion when it is oh-so-effortlessly swirling through the air, but he can't help himself. She's Sophie and he's Keefe and this must be a dream, or it—or _she_ —

"Hi."

He takes a step forward, patting his hands down the fabric of his cape as if reassuring himself. "Hey, Foster."

She smiles—and it's _the sun_.

Just like that, it's them again because he's Keefe and she's Sophie and no one knows him better.

He notices the alicorn-print apron covering her tunic and grins. "So... baking?" Sophie frowns quizzically, silently prompting him to explain. "Gradyio told me. I think I'm growing on him."

"Oh. Yes. Edaline and I were making mallowmelt, then we heard you," she fidgets, reaching up to tug at a few eyelashes, "so she, uhm, went outside."

 _Everyone_ seemed to be going outside.

"You shouldn't have stopped on my account," Keefe mumbles. He fights the impulse to look down at the pavement–

–to be a _coward_ , to play right into his family's legacy–

–lets the need to drink her in, to fully experience every moment he has with her win, instead. "I'll be quick. I... I just wanted to say I'm sorry in person."

Her frown turns confused. "What for?"

"For the other day," he answers, "for making you think that I'm underestimating the situation. I'm _not_."

"Oh, Keefe," Sophie softens, her eyes—impossibly alight against the sunrays filtering in through the windows around them—his gilded cage. "I know. I know how important retrieving those memories is to you, more important than it could ever be to any of us," she shakes her head in self-reprimand, "I was unfair. I'm sorry."

Keefe grins again, a little crooked but wide and bright, inching towards her. "Are you hijacking my apology, Foster?"

"I—" her eyebrows pinch together, then, after exactly eight seconds, laughter bubbles up her throat, "I guess I am."

Keefe chuckles. "Mutual forgiveness?"

Sophie vigorously nods her head, walking to meet him halfway. She offers him a bent pinkie.

His eyes trail from her finger to her face in bemusement, the ice-blue ( _always_ ) warm on her, a torch he has carried for far too long.

"It's a human thing," she explains, tries to shrug it off even as two lines of blush spread along the curves of her cheekbones. "We hook our pinkies together and make a promise."

"O-okay."

They touch and their heartbeats spike in tandem.

Keefe's whole body is a _supernova_ –

–there are _two_ fires inside of him, now, two twin flames of fondness and affection and _so much more_ –

–and he cannot wait to ignite.

They're a phoenix—their relationship has almost collapsed so many times—and they will rise from the ashes.

He can get used to this.

"What are we promising?" he whispers, his breath wafting at a few locks of her golden hair.

Sophie bites down on her bottom lip. "I... thought it'd be obvious."

His breath hitches when she entwines her pinkie with his more firmly and wills her emotions to curl around him like a protective cocoon.

He has always been able to detect what she was feeling–

–a curse morphed, at last, into a blessing–

–with utmost clarity, even without as much as a brush along her skin, even with a hopeless distance between them, but some things are simply different, some things require to be spelled out.

"I don't know how to say this," Sophie laughs, almost breathless.

Keefe is trembling as he draws her in closer by the hand.

The sun, rightful king of the late morning sky, kisses their silhouettes, bathes this monumental moment of theirs in hues of gold.

"I promise I know."


End file.
